


Holding A Pair of Socks

by I_Gypsy_Queen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cannon, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, M/M, Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Slow Build, Slow Burn, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2020-12-16 00:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21027422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Gypsy_Queen/pseuds/I_Gypsy_Queen
Summary: A realistic portrayal of this relationship with all the smut you might want.





	1. Inferi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore in Godric’s Hollow

Albus Dumbledore would one day be the greatest wizard of all time, a steadfast champion of Wizards and Muggles alike, a beacon of hope for generations. But that wouldn’t be for years to come.  
At this moment, eighteen years old and newly graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, young Albus was sullen, withdrawn and completely inconsolable. His last year in school had been crowned with glory, recognition and offers to experience all the magical world had to offer. The day he had absolved, had been one of the greatest in his short but vast memory. So much promise laid out before him, so many eyes looking to see what he would do with his future.  
All of his selfish schoolboy dreams had come crashing down in one single day. One unimaginable and violent accident had robbed the glimmer from Dumbledore’s eyes and left in its wake what was little more than an Inferi, a mindless body that existed only at the bidding of others.  
On the morning in question, young Albus was sullenly trudging from his family’s modest estate into Godric’s Hollow. A literal dark cloud followed above him, keeping pace with his laborious steps.  
He could have apparated, he knew full well. He’d received top marks on his exams, but it was too dangerous. If Muggles caught a glimpse of a tall, auburn-locked lad popping into existence in some alleyway, the ministry would be charging him with violation of the magical Statute of Secrecy before you could say Flibbertygibbit. So, it was too dangerous to apparate, too dangerous to practice spells in daylight, too dangerous to read magical texts in the glen under the willow, too dangerous to be a Dumbledore in this forsaken town.  
These were the thoughts that darkened young Albus’ mind that clear, sunny morning, inadvertently causing the cloud above him to rumble. He paused on the edge of Godric’s Hollow, just behind the cemetery, and muttered under his breath: Finite Incantatem. If it was too dangerous to even read a book, it would certainly not do to trot into town with a singular cloud raining down on his head.  
As he uttered the words, Albus felt a deep longing. Using that simple, insignificant spell was like having an entire treacle tart and only eating a crumb. The vast potential of his magic gaped before him, beckoning seductively, but he was forced to abstain. Albus struggled with the frustration, if he lost control of his true anger for even a second, he could easily destroy the entire town and everyone in it. He knew too well what uncontrolled magic could do.  
Determined not to linger in town too long, Albus quickened his steps down the main street. He was a handsome, if bookish lad, and the townsfolk nodded friendly greetings. Though complete strangers, Albus could instantly tell which were the wizards and which the Muggles. The Muggles were welcoming, open, even tried to engage him in conversation. Wizards would give a quick nod and be about their way, terrified that even a lingering look could give them away. Young Dumbledore’s resentment grew every time he caught a glimpse of that fear.  
It blossomed tenfold when he stopped outside the Hollow’s Inn, the town’s only establishment of the sort. His skin began to prickle as he ducked his tall frame through the door. The atmosphere inside was light and warm as candles burned and locals exchanged tales and laughed over a pint. Dumbledore took no notice of them and headed straight for the bar. Arturius Chisler, the Inn’s stocky owner stood behind the bar giving the impression of cleaning a glass that was already sparkling. He barely lifted his eyes when the boy walked in and nodded Albus into the back room. With a quick look around, Dumbledore ducked under the curtain and stepped through. He felt the magic ripple around him, rushing across his skin and causing goosepimples. Arturius, an accomplished wizard, had enchanted the curtain. Any Muggle who stepped through would only see a dull back room, piled with empty barrels and crates of vegetables and beer bottles. Dumbledore saw something else entirely.  
The shop was a decent size. Nothing like Flourish and Blotts or even the Magical shop in Hogsmeade, but sizable enough to accommodate his mild needs. Potions had been one of his favorite subjects in school, he’d even invented a Draught For Momentary Befuddlement, which had earned him top marks in seventh year. But there was no room for invention or imagination within the meager supply of herbs available here. The tight band of resentment cinched harder around his chest. He steadied his breath and walked to the counter where an old house elf stared up at him with her huge eyes.  
“Young Master Dumbledore,” she squeaked. “Come for your remedies?”  
“And a few others,” he mumbled. His voice had once boomed across halls, calling students to attention as Head Boy, or even giving a handful of lectures in his final years at Hogwarts. Now he found no reason to speak above a whisper. How had everything become so turned around?  
Albus gave the old elf his list and waited patiently as she called the ingredients to her and began sorting them out on the scales.  
It was as the elf weighed out a small bundle of wolfsbane that he felt his hair stand on end. His hand instinctively reached for the wand tucked into his breast pocket and gripped its oak handle tightly. The phoenix feather thrummed inside it with anticipation.  
That he was being watched was a certainty, but Dumbledore could sense no malice in the stare. He turned slowly, casually, as though bored with the house elf’s work. He stretched a little, craning his long neck this way and that. He saw no one but a flash of gold disappearing behind some shelves. Leaving the elf to her measuring and counting, Albus wandered down the aisle, carefully keeping his eyes on the shelves as though browsing the selection. Every hair on his body was standing on end. As he came around the corner another flash of gold disappeared. This time he gave up all pretense and his long legs covered the aisle in three steps. As he was about to turn the corner again, a row of vials to his left shattered and sprayed glass in all directions.  
Dumbledore flinched from the shards and saw the tip of a wand duck behind the shelves. By the time he’d reached the end of the aisle again and turned the corner, all he caught was the flap of the curtain and another flash of gold. Compelled, he walked toward the archway.  
“Your things, young master,” the elf squeaked at him. Dumbledore stood, torn, but decided it would not do to arrive home without Ariana’s medicine. He’d never hear the end of it. He reluctantly paid the house elf and gave her a polite nod as she bowed repeatedly before him squeaking compliments. He tucked the items in his pocket, out of sight, and stepped through the curtain.  
Once back out on the main street, Albus searched his surrounding for anyone with bright gold hair but found only a handful of dishwater blondes. Who had been following him? Who would possibly care to follow him now that he was an aimless, futureless, failure? The excitement of the moment faded. It could have simply been a young witch thinking him handsome. A voice in his mind denied this, but he silenced it. There simply wasn’t anything that interesting about Albus Dumbledore anymore. It had been paranoia, nothing more. A small flickering light that had taken root in his chest, died. The monotony and routine sank back in, heavy on Albus’ shoulders. His steps dragged him out of town past the cemetery


	2. Bombarda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore and Grindelwald meet

Albus liked going through Godric’s Hollow Cemetery every time he came in to town. It was only here that the thoughts in his mind quieted and he could feel some peace. Here, among the dead. It was the equality that brought him comfort. Here, in the ground, there was no line drawn between Muggles and Wizards. They all rested together, forevermore.  
Albus thought he would sit beneath the large oak tree at the back of the cemetery and enjoy some licorice snaps, when he saw it.  
Gold.  
His breath caught and without thinking, Albus threw himself behind a large tombstone, breathing heavily. It took him a few seconds to gather his courage and peek around the rough-carved stone. He did not notice, but his jaw quite literally dropped at the sight.  
The boy was propped up on a grave, head leaning casually against the headstone. His hair was indeed a blinding gold color that seemed to reflect the sun like a mirror. His white shirt was open, his sleeves rolled up, his face soaking in the sun. Piled all around him were open books, loose parchment and scattered broken quills. His eyes were closed, and he seemed so free in that moment, Dumbledore felt a little perverse staring at him in such a state. He pulled back behind the gravestone and tried to calm his breathing. Just a boy. Probably a few years younger, sunning himself. Even if he’d been the one in the shop, there was clearly no threat here.  
Dumbledore decided to make his way out of the cemetery without disturbing the boy, but his body refused to move. He’d been a curious child, inquisitiveness always got the better of him. Everything inside was screaming for him to examine the situation further. With a heavy swallow, Albus peeked around the gravestone again, chewing his bottom lip. The boy was now furiously thumbing through a large volume, clearly hunting for something specific. Albus was impressed with how quickly the boy worked, methodical yet rapid. Clearly the answer was not to be found or to his liking, because the boy gave a low hiss and tossed the book into the grass.  
That’s when Dumbledore heard them. And the boy did too.  
Voices, up the hill past the cemetery gates. Loud, drunken voices. Both Dumbledore and the golden-haired boy stared up, each unaware of the other’s fear. The group crested the hill a few moments later. Three of them, swaying violently and shoving each other. They laughed as they made their way down the hill and Dumbledore gripped his wand. He stole a look to the other occupant of the cemetery. The golden-haired boy was packing his books into a small satchel, methodically and quickly as seemed his trademark pace. He was making a point not to rush, however, almost as though he was waiting for the group to arrive. Perhaps he knew them, Dumbledore wondered.  
As the drunken group made it’s way through the cemetery gates, Dumbledore mumbled to himself, Salvia Hexia. The spell should make him invisible to Muggles even if they stood nose to nose. It was then that he noticed the other boy also speak to himself. Albus felt the ripple of magic and realized a spell had been lifted.  
“Well lookie here, lads,” the burliest of the drunks called, laying eyes on the boy whose books were now carefully tucked away. Albus recognized the familiar way the boy held his fist tightened in his back pocket. Wand at the ready. “What sort of girl is this?”  
“That’s not a girl,” another barked back. “It’s not even human is it?”  
Cold snakes coiled in Dumbledore’s stomach. He would never understand the cruelty of some, wizard and muggle alike. Their need to prey on the weak and eat their own was so unfathomable to his nature.  
“What hole did you crawl out of, pipsqueak?” The third asked, giving the boy’s shoulder a shove. At this, Albus found himself standing. “You’re not from the Hollow, are ye?”  
The boy didn’t speak, but he did stare them down bravely, chin jutting and eyes squinting with rage.  
“You know,” the burly one spoke, “we ‘ave a tradition of sorts here. Whenever a stranger comes in, everyone in town gets a free lick.”  
“A lick, Tommy?” one of the others asked in mock ignorance. “Whatever could you mean?”  
“I mean,” Tommy answered, “we each get to give you a great big kick in the arse.”  
“You mean,” the other snorted drunkenly, “welcome to the Hollow, where we don’t let life kick ye in arse.”  
“We do it ourselves!” the third boy erupted into a braying donkey laugh that seemed to offend everyone involved.  
Tommy, standing at least a foot taller than the small boy and nearly twice as thick reached for him. The boy jumped back and with a surprising grace pulled back his fist and hit him square in the nose. Tommy’s face was covered in blood a split-second later and he fell to the ground shrieking. Albus’ palms were sweating.  
The other two, suddenly sober, made for the boy. One’s fist got there first and the boy went sprawling back into the tree, a bloody gash appearing under his eye. That’s when it appeared, flourished delicately from his back pocket. It was long and slender, and held at the ready. The two drunken boys dissolved into laughter at the sight.  
“What in the ‘ell are you going to do with that little stick?” The held on to each other and laughed. The boy snarled and anything that had seemed meek about him faded away and a feral animal took its place. Albus knew he had to do something or this would end very badly.  
Finite Incantatem, he whispered, lifting the barrier spell and making himself seen. His hand remained on the hilt of his wand, twitching with anticipation as he approached the group. The boys had finished their laughter and were now standing on either side of the wizard, cracking their knuckles. It all happened at once.  
One of the two cocked his fist back, the boy lifted his wand in an arc and Dumbledore shouted with a flourish: “Imperio!”  
Both the attackers went slack-jawed as Albus assumed control over them. His heart was pounding. He’d just performed an unforgivable curse in the presence of Muggles. Merlin’s beard, what a disaster.  
Assured that all three of the drunks were well subdued, Dumbledore turned his suddenly timid eyes toward the golden-haired boy’s. This was the first time he’d been close enough to truly see them. They were dark, almost black, and of such depth Albus was certain they could not be real. At the moment they reflected suspicion. His wand was still at the ready, now pointed directly at Dumbledore’s chest.  
“Please,” was all Albus could say, holding his wand to the side. That first word spoken between them would be echoed a hundred fold in the coming years.


	3. Lumos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short little chapter on these two meeting.

“Who are you?” the golden-haired boy asked, voice steady and unafraid, wand still pointed menacingly. He spoke with a thick Nordic accent but like someone who had top marks in English.  
“My name is Albus Percival Wolfric Brian Dumbledore,” he answered, hoping the sheer ridiculousness of his name might disarm the boy a little.  
“Nonsense,” the boy answered, fist tightening on his wand. “No one would do that to their child.”  
“Well, my parents did.” Albus lifted a supplicant hand. “I come from a large and demanding family. And you?”  
The boy faltered, wand dropping a little. He could sense no deceit in Albus. A golden eyebrow raised toward his hairline and his eyes squinted in faltering suspicion. After another moment of tense silence, he lowered his wand carefully. “Grindelwald.”  
Albus nodded, not wanting to press him. Both took a deep breath and turned their eyes to the two salivating drunks. Albus was unsure of what to do next and he did not particularly like the dark look that crossed Grindelwald’s face. The still bleeding Tommy was on the ground, looking from one person to another in sheer terror.  
“I will send them on their way,” Dumbledore muttered and issued the commands. The hard look did not leave Grindelwald’s eyes as he watched them depart.  
“What are you doing here?” the boy spoke, turning his cold, obsidian eyes on Dumbledore.  
“I apologize for my rudeness.” Albus extended a hand the boy ignored. Somewhat ruffled, after all he had helped Grindelwald, Dumbledore cocked an auburn eyebrow. “I saw you in the shop. There was no need for theatrics.”  
For an instant color flooded the boy’s icy, pale cheeks but was quickly dismissed.  
“I will be leaving now,” Grindelwald stated, shouldering his satchel. Albus was unsure if more was required from him and was furiously trying to conjure some farewell greeting, when the boy stopped. Without turning around, he spoke quietly. “Will you be passing this way tomorrow?”  
Albus had not intended to return to Godric’s Hollow so soon, so he was surprised to hear himself answer: “Yes. Around the afternoon.”  
Grindelwald gave no indication if this pleased or displeased him, nor even that he heard it at all. Instead he continued out of the cemetery and toward the village.  
Albus did not feel the chill until the golden haired boy was gone from his sight. It was unlike any cold he had ever known, with a particular kind of burn in his chest that both warmed and froze him alike. He could not explain the sensation, nor could he know then that this was the exact feeling of falling in love with a monster.


	4. The Forbidden Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore meets Grindelwald the following day and the two discover a mutual interest... each other.

It was simply a walk, Dumbledore told himself. He was merely choosing to have a comfortable stroll on this dreary, ominously cloudy day, under a sky that threatened to open all sorts of hell on top of his head. Indeed.  
Yet he could not shake that same chill from his heart as his steps dragged him closer to Godric’s Hollow Cemetery. It was highly unlikely, Albus mused, that the boy would be there anyway. Considering the fuss in the shop yesterday, he was probably avoiding Dumbledore like the blast end of a skrewt. So sure was Albus that this would happen, he turned around at least four times, but in the end convinced himself to extend his walk past the gates of the cemetery.  
He was embarrassingly wrong, though at first, Dumbledore did not realize it. As he approached the tomb he and Grindelwald had defended the previous day, he saw no one. He ignored the sudden and fierce sting in his chest. He was relieved of course, still uncertain as to why he had agreed to meet the stranger, much less trudged all the way out here on a day simply made for reading a book with a good pipe. As he was entirely dismissing the desire to wait and see if the boy would show, he felt the tendrils of magic close by and his pulse quickened. The flickering, erratic light was flitting in and out of sight behind elaborate gravestones. It took Albus a moment to recognize it for what it was.  
A Patronus.  
The very idea made Dumbledore want to hide. Such wanton magic in so public a place was verging on obscene. What if a Muggle wandered by and discovered it? The Ministry would have Aurors here arresting everyone in sight for miles. Rampant magic was strictly forbidden and the consequences dire. Azkaban was bursting to the seams with witches and wizards that had unknowingly been seen. More than ever, Albus felt the overwhelming desire to flee.  
The patronus approached him in a confused manner and he soon realized the reason for it. It was a small blue bird, resplendent feathers, icy white chest, and oddly, its wing was broken. Dumbledore had never seen a patronus act this way, it was unprecedented and it overwhelmed him with curiosity. He reached out as though to touch the fragile thing, but it jumped just beyond his touch. He felt compelled to follow it without realizing, hand outstretched and blind to all else.  
The bird led him through the brush of the nearby woods and into a wide, open glen meadow before vanishing in a puff. Only then did Dumbledore take in his surroundings. He stood on the edge of a crystal clear pool, fairly large and at the center of it, rising out of the water, a flat, white stone. Upon the stone stood a figure that seemed to rob Albus of his breath.  
Grindelwald lounged on the large rock as though he’d been painted there. The blue of the stormy air colored his skin an icy hue and dulled the gold of his hair to a pale white. Dumbledore felt somehow unclean next to this radiant angel and he absentmindedly wiped his hands against his trousers.  
Grindelwald seem to ignore his approach entirely, his long neck craned over a carelessly thrown arm. Dumbledore came so closely it seemed inane now to say nothing, so he cleared his throat instead.  
“It will storm,” Grindelwald remarked, his eyes still closed.  
“Um, yes,” Albus answered, gesturing vaguely at the sky, “the clouds are—”  
“So why come?” At this Grindelwald stood, hands on hips surveying the new comer.  
“Because I said I would,” was the only answer Albus could muster. Grindelwald stared at him for an uncomfortable amount of time until finally the corner of his mouth lifted into a grin.  
“Well for us,” Grindelwald said, “there is no storm.” Albus had not seen the wand strapped to his upper thigh until it moved with a quick twirl towards the sky. The clouds remained a dark, dangerous gray, but the sun shone on the pool as though they were not even there. The green became verdant, the wildflowers perked up and soon it was so warm, Dumbledore was growing uncomfortable in his shirt.  
“I think that is quite enough of that,” he shouted, tugging at the cravat he’d carefully labored over.  
“If you wish for us to speak,” Grindelwald shouted back, “then you must come here.”  
“I seem to have forgotten my swimming clothes,” Dumbledore tittered, starting to feel like this might have been a mistake.  
“I know who you are.” Grindelwald was made angelic by the golden light that bathed him as he lay back down. “My aunt is Bathilda. She told me.” Albus tugged furiously at his cravat until it came unknotted and considered the rudeness of simply departing. “She told me of your family.” He gave a deep sigh as though the subject bored him. “Is this why you fear magic?”  
The cravat tore slightly in Dumbledore’s hands.  
He was not prone to having a temper, knowing too well what losing control could mean. But in this moment the surge of fury turned his skin a russet color and made his eyes tear. Instinctively he reached for his wand but the sight of Grindelwald glowing, so vulnerable, so beautiful, stayed his hand. It was not in Dumbledore to destroy lovely things.  
“Do not be angry,” Grindelwald said, opening one eye against the brightness and patting the stone next to him. “Come. Speak with me.”  
Albus was not known for spontaneity. He carefully calculated and measured each step and its possible outcomes, in all aspects of his life. And the current situation called for that more than ever before. Yet, in this moment, Dumbledore felt his heart make a leap, shudder in his chest. Somewhere in his subconscious he realized that what waited for him on that rock, under the golden light, was simply this: freedom.  
Once he felt it, the need to be there grew overwhelming. He pulled off the jumper and almost tore the buttons of his crisp green shirt. The undershirt followed along with socks and shoes. He had the sense to fold them next to what looked to be a messy pile of Grindelwald’s clothes, before wading into the warm water, his wand tucked safely in his trouser pocket. He did not need to embarrass himself swimming, one of his lesser talents, as the pool was shallow and the sand soft against his feet.  
Upon arriving at the sun-heated rock, Albus realized it was not very large and Grindelwald was lounging directly in the middle. Uncertain what was proper, Dumbledore pulled himself onto it and stood, casting a shadow down on the other occupant.  
“Why do I make the sun, and you hide the sun?” Grindelwald sighed, leaning on his elbow to look up at Albus. Something about the statement struck Dumbledore in his heart.  
“You should not be practicing rampant magic. It is extremely dangerous right now.”  
“What is ‘rampant’? I do not know this word.”  
“Well, it means uncontrolled. Wild magic.”  
Grindelwald’s smile was blinding, like a rare gem in direct light. “Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, all magic is wild.”  
Dumbledore barely saw him rise, he moved so quickly, and suddenly they were standing almost nose to nose. Grindelwald flourished his wand and fire began to stream from the tip in large swaths around them. The flames danced in amorphous shapes around the two, as Grindelwald grinned in Albus’ face, a wicked look in his obsidian eyes.  
“My aunt, she tells me you are the best in your school. You have great power.” It was at this point that Dumbledore realized he was trembling so hard his teeth were chattering. “Why do you not use it? Why do you hide from what you are?”  
Albus did not mean to, in fact the last thing on his mind in that moment was to grab his own wand, but it happened anyway. He should be saying his farewells, running as fast as he could from this sunlit place bursting with magic. But he’d been doing that for weeks, hiding from the simmering need to unleash himself, and in this moment, he could not bring himself to do it.  
Instead, matching Grindelwald’s jaunty grin and unblinking, Dumbledore waved his wand in a spherical arc above their heads. At first the pool around them rippled, as though from a strong wind. Then, as Albus cocked a mischievous eyebrow, it rose from its bed in great waves, engulfing the dancing fire and filling the air with steam. No sooner was the fire extinguished that the water swirled again, moving like a raging river in a sphere around them, cocooning the two.  
Neither spoke. They simply looked at each other and took stock of their differences. One ruddy colored and one fair, one kissed by fire, the other icy cool, one breathing quickly with excitement, the other collected and measuring. As opposite as two kings on the chessboard.  
Just before Albus could register that things had gotten wildly out of hand and drop his spell, something very strange happened. Grindelwald took a shaky breath, a surprising moment of vulnerability crossing his face, then took a step forward and joined his lips with Dumbledore’s.  
Albus had simply never considered attraction. That is not to say that he was blind, in fact he was a great admirer of beauty, but in a clinical way. He viewed others as complex works of art, not objects of desire. In fact, until this very moment, Albus Dumbledore had never even experienced arousal.  
The feeling shattered him.  
Everything he’d once been, calm, measured, pensive, it all fell away like broken glass and another thing entirely took his place. The water around them roared as Albus placed his long fingers on either side of Grindelwald’s face. Dumbledore’s curiosity took him over entirely. As though learning the quirks of a stranger, he wanted to know everything his body could feel. Grindelwald’s cool skin against his heated palms was soothing and he seemed open to the touch as his head angled around Dumbledore’s nose to deepen the kiss.  
The realization came with a cold wash, quite literally because Albus dropped his spell. They were suddenly drenched and knocked to the ground on the hard stone. The steam still lingered lightly in the air around them.  
The panic settled in immediately. Where a moment ago he’d been considering all manners of things, Albus now found himself confronted with a stranger in a strange place.  
Grindelwald’s black eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don’t run.” He whispered.  
Albus wouldn’t have listened if he could. His body was already flinging him into the water and scrambling for the shore. He did not look to see if he was being pursued. He swept up his clothes quickly and embarrassingly ran through the brush toward home.  
He did not stop until he stood on the edge of the forest near his home. His breath short and labored and unaccustomed to physical exertion, Dumbledore dropped in the grass and lay there for some time. Even the thought of what had happened twisted his stomach so fiercely, he had to curl around himself to make it stop. He could not tell if he was laughing or crying, only that he had never felt so free. Thunder rumbled above and the sky opened on him, soaking him to the bone.  
It was enough to glimpse that freedom, he thought to himself as the panic finally subsided, yet too dangerous to sustain. It had been a welcomed rattle in his monotonous world, but if it rattled too hard, it might break.  
Thankfully, he need not see Grindelwald again.


	5. Magical Cooperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore receives a late night guest

It took Dumbledore 3 days to get over the entire thing. At night, lying alone in his bed, the images would steal into his mind, the sound of rushing water made him ache, and always that strange clenching in his stomach he could not seem to rid himself of. On the eve of the third sleepless night, Dumbledore found himself at the kitchen table, browsing over a copy of Joy Crumpket’s Magical Herb Maintenance, and not seeing a word. He felt restless, like he should be out walking, or practicing spells, or writing letters, anything but the prospect of another night spent tossing and turning.   
At the opposite side of the sleepless table stood Albus’ younger brother Abe. The circles around both their eyes were telling. Abeforth was not resting for other reasons, however. Since their mother’s death a few weeks ago, the younger Dumbledore had not slept more than a few hours at a time. And with Ariana waking up at all hours of the night screaming, good rest was hard to find. It only deepened their despair.  
Albus had dealt with his mother’s death differently. He had packed it away in a hard to reach drawer in the back of his mind, an unbearable keepsake he could not part with. He would take it out every now and then and examine it, turn it over in his hands, and finding nothing but agony, would lock it back up. Abeforth did not have this luxury, he continued to feel everything.  
On this night, as they sat quietly, lit by several floating candles, Abeforth dozed in his chair. Unable to contain the breathless pain he felt whenever he looked upon his siblings, Albus stood and extinguished all but one flame which floated gently ahead of him as he climbed the stairs to his room. As he passed Ariana’s room he stopped to listen, but mercifully she seemed to be sleeping. For now.   
The door creaked lightly as he closed it behind him and sent the candle to rest on his disorganized desk. He kicked off his loafers and collapsed onto the bed. The second it was quiet and he was silent, it returned. His mind conjured the image of Grindelwald, splayed like a marble statue across the sunlit rock and the clenching was so unbearable he stood and paced to relieve it.  
“Merlin, what is this?” he whispered breathlessly. Not since his Sorting Ceremony, first year, had he been this nervous. This is probably why he let out a small shout when something tapped on his window.   
His wand was instantly at the ready and his eyes registered a dark figure bobbing up and down behind the pale curtains. The adrenaline rushed through him and for a moment he was a formidable wizard once again. He could feel the magic flowing through him and he allowed it full reign as he stepped forward to pull the curtains back and strike.   
His hand froze in midair. Behind the unclean window pane a familiar pale, blonde face floated, balancing carefully. Dumbledore gave a start and leapt backwards, landing himself down on his posterior. Rubbing a particularly sore spot and feeling embarrassed, he stood and opened the window. Grindelwald did not wait for an invitation and gracefully folded himself through the opening, pulling his broom with him.   
“Albus,” he began, and Dumbledore leapt forward to clamp a hand down on his mouth.   
“Silence!” he shouted, shaking from head to toe and listening. He waited for Ariana to begin her nightly chorus of wails, or for Abe to come tromping up the stairs, but the house remained quiet. “My family is here. Please, don’t wake them.”   
Suddenly Albus realized they were standing too close, his fingers were pressed against Grindelwald’s lips as the single flame cast alluring shadows across his angular face. Once again, Dumbledore flung himself back to create some space.   
“This is very unexpected,” Albus whispered, eyes darting desperately around at all the evidence of his slovenliness. Papers and books were strewn everywhere, towering in teetering stacks, spilled ink and quills, clothes hanging from every available surface. Grindelwald’s pristine demeanor seemed out of place in such a scene.   
“Muffliato,” Grindelwald gave his wand a flick. “Now we can speak normally.”  
He said it as though it was perfectly normal for him to be in Dumbledore’s bedroom in the middle of the night, pawing his books. Seeing those long, delicate fingers rifling through the pages suddenly angered Albus. I mean who did this boy think he was? Invading his life like this, turning everything upside down. What gave him the right to touch Dumbledore’s things?   
“I don’t think you should be here, Grindelwald,” Dumbledore huffed, taking the book from the other boy’s hand and placing it carefully back in the stack.   
“Gellert,” he answered with a knowing glance and grabbing another book from the top of a nearby table. “Are you angry we kissed?” The way he said it, like the event had barely registered for him.   
“I-I, that is not—” Albus stuttered like he’d been momentarily befuddled.   
“I am not here for that,” Gellert said, now poking around the papers on Dumbledore’s desk.  
“Will you stop touching all of my things!” Dumbledore shouted, sounding harsher than he’d meant. But he still needed to be able to look at something in his room after this and not think of Grindelwald. And right now, that was becoming difficult. He refused to even glance at the bed. That feeling was coming again, and with him so close, it seemed worse than ever. “You need to leave. My family is here and—”  
“They cannot hear us.” Grindelwald settled himself in Albus’ chair and propped his feet on the desk, knocking over a small set of brass scales. The challenge in his eyes was unmistakable but Dumbledore kept hold of his manners.   
“Very well,” Albus barked, waving his wand in a small circle above his desk where a tea set appeared, with the kettle prepared. He needed something to keep his head, especially since he had not slept. He offered Grindelwald a cup and sat in a chair opposite him. “It seems I cannot rid myself of you, so perhaps you should tell my why you sought me out in the middle of the night for a cup of tea.” The porcelain clattered loudly in Dumbledore’s hands, as Gellert Grindelwald stared at him with a smirk until the twisting in his stomach felt like he might break in half.  
“I need the help of the best student at Hogwarts,” Gellert finally spoke.   
Albus was taken aback and a little disappointed. He had jumped to conclusions. Of course, there were particular clues, the late-night arrival, the mischievous look in Grindelwald’s black eyes, the occurrences at their previous meetings, that had led to those conclusions, but it seemed they were inaccurate.   
“Very well,” Dumbledore answered, conjuring a few more candles so he could see the other boy’s face. The lights seemed to love his hair, the flickering reflections making it seem as though Grindelwald wore a crown of fire. “You have my attention.”  
“In the cemetery there is a grave. It has this symbol on it.” Gellert’s nimble, delicate fingers distracted Dumbledore as he quickly drew a bisected triangle with a sphere at its center. Albus easily recognized the image.  
“Ignotus Peverell? What about it?”   
“Tell me, Albus Dumbledore,” Grindelwald leaned forward and the firelight caught in the void of his eyes, “have you heard of the Deathly Hallows?”   
Dumbledore was thankful for the Muffliato spell because his barking laugh would have woken the whole house. It took a few moments for it to subside which obviously annoyed Grindelwald. Good, Dumbledore thought triumphantly, at least something shakes that unnerving cool of his.   
“Why are you asking me about children’s tales?” Albus said, his eyes still shimmering with tears.  
Gellert’s face flashed with anger, and he stood to grab his broom. Dumbledore’s first instinct was to let him go, then a second later realized he didn’t want him gone. A strange desperation grabbed hold of Dumbledore and propelled him forward. His longer limbs got him to the window first and he held it shut. “Don’t run,” he simply said. “Please.”   
Grindelwald, still flushed with a dignified rage, stood motionless before the window, their faces only inches apart. Dumbledore’s heart thrummed like an over-tightened chord, that clenching feeling strangling him from inside. Grindelwald seemed to absorb the moonlight, the candlelight, as though it was made for him, casting him now warm, now icy, the shadows playfully gentle across his face. Albus became transfixed by the moon, two perfect crescents reflected in Gellert’s obsidian eyes.   
He wasn’t sure how long they stood there speechless, each daring the other with their eyes, neither brave enough to take the leap. Eventually, the moment grew uncomfortable and Gellert broke the spell by turning a rigid back and dropping down in Dumbledore’s chair.   
“So, you will help me then?” he said, fingers now hungrily brushing over Albus’ things.   
“Help you with what?” Dumbledore tried to regain control of himself and darted for a cup of cold tea to soothe his nerves.   
“I am looking for the Hallows.”   
A familiar cold feeling spread through Dumbledore’s chest. “Even if we imagine the Hallows are real objects and not figments of a fable, why would you be searching for such powerful artifacts?”  
A playful smile turned the corners of Grindelwald’s lips. “Albus, have you never wanted to know the answer, simply because the question was asked?”   
The statement tugged at Dumbledore’s nature. His inquisitiveness, his obsession with knowledge, that nagging voice which constantly haunted him, wasn’t easily ignored. Grindelwald could not have offered a better challenge to a mind like Dumbledore’s. Curiosity is the natural enemy of trepidation.   
“How have you been going about it, then?” Dumbledore asked, pointing his wand sharply to call several books to the desk between them.   
“I have only learned that it is possible Peverell was one of the three owners of the Hallows.” Grindelwald and Albus both reached for the same books, their fingers brushing only for a second, but it made Dumbledore’s arm go numb. He marveled at how such a simple act could cause so much aching inside him, it was positively irrational.   
The hours passed easily, as they poured over old volumes, collected notes, and composed letters in Dumbledore’s name to well renowned historians who would gladly answer his questions. A final letter was written to the Hogwarts Headmaster, requesting the loan of several books on history and lore. Gellert had an especially gifted mind. It was rare for Dumbledore to find his equal in wits, but he never quite seemed to get the upper hand with Grindelwald. As the time slipped by, unnoticed, the two drew their chairs closer and closer, marking notes on each other’s parchments and passing books across the table. The night pushed into its final hours and Dumbledore grew aware of the proximity with increasing distress.  
Something was happening. The clenching feeling in his gut had migrated lower and morphed into a different sort of uncomfortable tightness. He was acutely aware of a distressing new condition in his pelvis, which only worsened every time Grindelwald’s shoulder brushed him, or at the sight of his pale wrist twisting to ease an ache, or the fresh, grassy smell of his golden hair.   
The quill snapped in Albus’ hand, surprising them both. Grindelwald’s eyes came up from his work and once again they found themselves nose to nose. The impulse was there, for Dumbledore to back away, create some distance, but it was so weak. His eyes roamed over Grindelwald’s face like a sculptor examining his muse. He was glad to see that even Grindelwald’s unshakable cool was fraying at the edges, his chest rising faster than its normal rhythm.   
The candlelight cocooned them, hid them so carefully in its warmth. Albus could not help himself, he leaned his head but just a little, until their foreheads rested together. He was not a foolish risk taker, he always weighed his options carefully, but this was a sightless leap. All the meager parts of his life that still held together, could be torn apart by one look of revulsion on Gellert’s face.   
The look did not come.   
Instead, Grindelwald once again took him by surprise, as the boy closed the distance between their lips with vicious ferocity. Albus was rendered utterly inert, as Gellert leapt from his chair in a desperate move and awkwardly climbed in his lap. Grindelwald kissed as though something inside him, something buried in the darkest dungeons of his soul, had crashed through the gates and been unleashed in full fury.   
As for Dumbledore, he’d never been so close to another person in his life. He had shaken hands, had been embraced by parents, family members and dear friends. But never had someone tried to crawl inside his robes, inside his skin like this. Gellert pressed them together as though he was trying to make them into one person, his mouth bruising and demanding. The room, the desk, the candlelight spun violently and Dumbledore had to close his eyes to shut it out. This left him so much more aware of what he was feeling.   
The twisting sensation from earlier had sharpened to a focused point in his body and that point was at the moment buried between Gellert’s thighs. Hands were reaching for Dumbledore’s laces, freeing patches of skin to explore. Finally remembering himself, Albus clenched his arms around Gellert’s waist, drawing him closer if that was even possible. The sounds in the room became decadent, smothered moans and gasped breaths, the sound of fabric shifting.   
In but moments, they found themselves bare chested. Nothing could have prepared Dumbledore for the feeling of heated skin against skin. So overwhelmed was he, that his head lolled back, exposing his long neck to Gellert’s ravenous teeth. They sank in viciously, as his hips pressed down, Dumbledore uttered a weak, breathy sound he did not know he was capable of. When Gellert’s hands hungrily reached for the laces on his breeches, Dumbledore returned quickly to his senses.   
“Wait,” he breathed, unable to even support his voice, “it’s too fast. Please.”   
Albus was astonished to hear his voice so meek, so pleading, so thick with wanting. How had he been reduced to a blubbering mess so easily. He wrapped his long fingers around Grindelwald’s wrist, and used his remaining strength to lift his head to meet the boy’s eyes. The candlelight no longer reflected in Gellert’s eyes, it roared there with a vibrant flame. Dumbledore’s resolved waivered for but a moment, and Grindelwald swooped down on him again. His hands dug into Albus’ auburn curls, to hold him still, and gave no room for protest. But he made no move for the laces, and Dumbledore felt himself relax and enjoy the feeling.   
Indulgence had been a particular problem for him. A little too much chocolate, a few glasses of brandy too many, he had to carefully measure himself when it came to decadent things. He somehow knew in this moment, as Grindelwald’s soft hair brushed across the top of his nose, that this would be a habit impossible to break. He had never wanted anything as much as he wanted to vanish both their remaining clothes. To feel Gellert’s full body against him, writhing as he was doing now, nothing but lips and teeth and nails and skin, skin, skin. How could every inch of someone’s skin be both exhilaratingly new and hauntingly familiar?   
Dumbledore ducked his mouth and ran his tongue against the bones protruding from Grindelwald’s shoulder, and following his lead, nibbled down gently on it, scraping with his teeth. He felt shy, unsure of himself, but the sounds that erupted from Gellert’s chest, encouraged him on. He traced the line across Grindelwald’s collarbone, feeling as though he’d been missing the true uses of a tongue. It was not a trivial appendage for masticating food, it was an exploratory tool, a torture instrument that could bring to heel even an icy temperament like Grindelwald’s.   
An aching tenderness clenched around Dumbledore’s heart as he placed both hands on either side of Grindelwald’s face and lifted him so they could face each other. He paused the hunger, left it to simmer, as an entirely new feeling took center stage. Strangely compelled, Dumbledore feathered his lips across Grindelwald’s face, placing a soft kiss here, and there, as someone scattering flower seeds in a field.   
Gellert’s eyes rolled in his head, his breathing shallow and uneven. He placed his palms on Dumbledore’s hands and gave the most glorious sigh of surrender. Albus had never seen a person melt before, but that’s how the candlelit boy felt in his hands. It was now his turn to shatter Gellert instead.   
Hypnotically ecstatic, Dumbledore pulled Gellert to him and just as he pressed their lips together, the unexpected taste of salt caused Albus to pull back. A singular tear had rolled down Grindelwald’s perfect face and it seemed to sober the boy instantly.   
“I am going to go now,” Grindelwald snapped, wiping the tear from his face as though it was dirty. He stood and began gathering his robes from the floor with visibly shaking hands.   
“Wait!” The word came out strangled from Dumbledore’s throat. It seemed incomprehensible that he wasn’t holding Gellert at that moment. The pleasure had shaken him so profoundly, he’d had no notion that it could end, had not imagined what would come after it. Now he was what? Expected to go on living in the normal world, knowing that there was something, someone, out there who could make him feel like this? Was he supposed to sleep at night? To read books? To speak to people as an authority on anything? When everything he’d ever experienced paled in comparison? How would he ever think of anything else?  
By the time his thoughts caught up with what was happening, Gellert was making for the window with a determined and vaguely miserable face. Albus was floored. How could he be miserable when such a wonderous thing had happened between them? Dumbledore found that he did not like his kissing making Gellert miserable. He wanted Gellert to make those sounds again, wanted to see his eyes cloud over and feel his limbs grow heavy and loose.   
“Please don’t go,” Dumbledore whispered as he caught up to Gellert before the now open window. “I’m afraid, I haven’t encountered this before. I find myself unequal to the task of—”  
“Why don’t you English just say what you mean,” Grindelwald said, evenly, avoiding his gaze.   
Dumbledore swallowed and moved closer. It felt as though now he was magnetically attracted to the other boy’s body, orbiting around it, always trying to close the distance. “I don’t know what I did wrong.” Albus’ voice once again sounded meek and uncertain.   
The silence stretched on and Dumbledore’s despair grew with every breath. His first attempt at this and he had already cocked-it up. Top marks.   
“Tomorrow,” Grindelwald nodded to himself. “In the cemetery. At sunset.”   
“I’ll be there.” The words flew out of Dumbledore’s mouth before Gellert could finish his sentence. He’d heard before that coyness was a useful tactic in these situations, but he could not seem to muster it. All he could think of was how to get Gellert to make those sounds again.   
Grindelwald gave him one last, vulnerable glance and folded himself out the window and onto his broom. Before Dumbledore could utter a farewell, he had taken off into the night.   
For a long time, Albus just stared out the window, letting the cool early morning breeze brush against him. He felt surprisingly giddy, light, a feeling he had not known since his mother’s passing. The darkness that had haunted him for weeks, had retreated, compressed and hidden like the sickly thing it was. It took but the thought of Grindelwald’s teeth against his neck to chase it away and lock it up.   
For the first time, in quite some time, Dumbledore was looking forward to the day. He called for his owl, Clarence, a great horned beast, and tied the various letters above his massive talons sending him on his way. Then Albus collapsed into his sheets, still bare-chested, running his hands across goose-pimpled flesh, unable to contain the obscene smile on his face.   
It remained on his face as he fell into sleep, a more restful slumber than he had known in years.


End file.
